just a few sins
by Yoyoboyo Inc
Summary: [Mafia AU] As agents of rival organizations, this is how Kid and Conan first meet. First impressions goes a long way. [Warning: cross-dressing]


Hi. Some people asked how Kid and Conan met in our Mafia AU in our work a while ago: Front Row and Center. So we thought of something. :) Here you go!

For those who do not know, this is an AU inspired by a short KidCon comic we saw online. Conan is a crossdressing recon agent (probably around age 15 or so) and Kid is a member of his rival organization (age 25). Every fandom needs mafia AU's. Yes. :)

**Warnings: cross-dressing!Conan, language, sexual themes, underage sex**

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The Royale Hotel, 9:00 pm, Hirate Seiko.

Intel tells him how she looks like, what she likes, the type of men she prefers—clean, shaven, suave, a gentleman with class and consideration.

(Which is perfect because that's what he exactly is—or so Kid thinks.)

His mission is simple.

Hirate Seiko, a civilian caught in the mess of things, has in her purse a stolen cellphone with gigabytes of data and agent information.

It was stolen from a rookie agent in the White Org and swapped with her phone.

They send Kid, _Agent Daiquiri_, to retrieve the phone before other organizations do.

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White Org spins lies for Hirate to fall in and for Kid to work out of.

In minutes, the Org has bled into her social life—pulling out emails, internet history, phone calls.

Kid knows that Hirate is a loose woman with her eyes set on exploiting the men she's seduced. He also knows that her recent target is a young man— Matsumaru Kenji, age 26, a young businessman working for Taiya Tech.

She's never formally met him, nor seen his picture.

Which makes Kid's job infinitely easier since being up, close, and personal wouldn't work as well with latex masks.

(He's making sure, he can corner her somewhere safe before he takes it from her.)

Kid sends a message to her in Matsumaru's name—

_Let's have dinner at the Royale Hotel, 9:00 pm—will it be all right to stay at a room together for the night?_

Kid shows up, hair slicked back, with a white jacket and black dress shirt tucked into white pants.

(He has a Walther PP strapped onto his hip, an earpiece and mic clipped to his collar.)

Hirate answers the door in studded diamond pump heels and a red knee-length halter dress. Brown hair drawn up to the side of her head, she looks stunning. Her lips are glossed dark red and her hoop earrings glimmer.

(But Kid has seen better.)

"Seiko…chan?" He asks, with a nervous simper. "You—you look absolutely beautiful."

She acts coy and flushes red to her neck—"Kenji-kun."

Kid takes her hand and smiles.

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Dinner at the hotel is a three-star, two course meal.

If it was up to Kid, he'd bring her to the _Ventrice Bar_, an expensive (and private) little cove stashed away in the basement of Tokyo.

Wine and dinner would go for forty thousand yen a piece—he's White Org's prized asset, of course they make sure to keep him well fed and happy.

But _Matsumaru _is poor and it's only reasonable that he can afford third-class luxuries.

It's a job, so he'll have to put up with eating greasy foie gras.

"So, what does Seiko-chan like doing in her free time?" He spins the silver fork into caramelized onions.

Kid knows the answer too well—karaoke and watching dramas.

"Well, I," Seiko brushes a stray hair back, and flutters thick eyelashes. "I sing sometimes…"

Kid half-listens with his mouth on the rim of a wine glass—light wine, champagne.

And around him, his disguised associates eat their dinner without so much a glance at them.

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He makes love to her in the hotel room after dinner.

He really wasn't planning for it but she insisted with her (not so) subtle touches and drunken acts.

Because he's forced to play along, Kid ensures there's no ambush to interrupt them—his team stands guard in the hotel and shoots down agents from other organizations.

Kid makes sure to whisk away his gun and equipment to a safe place in his jacket pocket before he kisses her.

"Is this your first time?" he asks, breath stopping in his throat and not a pitch off from sounding naive.

Seiko is underneath him, stripped bare to her underwear, with a smile and low purr. "Why? Is it yours?"

Kid takes care to look sheepish although he's a seasoned thief who's been on too many operatives and had too many women.

Kid thinks he's doing her a massive favor—her being a civilian and all.

To him, it's something like a distraction that works just as well as drugs, it feels natural in the moment but devastating afterwards.

(Though in her case, she won't be _too _torn up with him leaving.)

It's better to have a one-night stand than to press his walther into her skull. If it was any other organization, they would have her dead on the carpet floor.

Kid's much kinder, he likes to think.

His team has secured the area, making sure to pick off other agents. .

(They want the phone, not her.)

There's a word for this—_mercy_.

(And while she sleeps, he wipes from the hotel his existence and enemy snipers.)

The next morning, he takes the phone and leaves.

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A sin is a sin, is a sin—just a black spot on a wall of white.

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Kid heads back to work in a clean suit and black shades. He walks down the pristine underground halls and turns a sharp left into an office.

"Back from the mission already?" Morisato asks with files in his hands that Kid knows to be his. He plucks the folder from his grip and spreads it open on the desk.

"Mhm. Retrieval went well." Kid thumbs through stills of security feeds and papers of agent information. "I suppose this is my next assignment?"

Morisato nods, finger tapping the keyboard to pull up a digital copy on the screen in front of him. "There's a snitch in the base. He's been selling Org secrets as a side job."

Hasegawa Ryuu, a balding middle aged man that works as the lead interrogator in the Intel Sector.

"A branch leader," Kid says, mouth dry. He flips more pages. "It's amazing how many agents he's sold out. Oh, here's his credit card history—this guy's been eating fifty thousand a day and he's set out to vacation at—…New York?"

"Fortunately, he has a job to finish here so you don't have to chase him across the ocean," Morisato says and he slides a scan card across the desk. "Lucky for you, he's requested an agent to be there with him during this interrogation if things go awry."

Kid raises an eyebrow. "Right… who's being interrogated?"

"They call him Kirsche," Morisato says and he slips a candid picture in front of Kid. "He was caught snooping around the cells of the agents we caught the other day. Hasegawa likes to have back-up when it comes to these types of people."

Kid picks up the candid photo, blurred around the edges. It's a petite and slim boy with a messy cowlick on the back of his head.

"He's nothing more than a brat, what does Hasegawa need me to do? _Babysit _him?"

"Kirsche is…" Morisato trails and he types some more. A blank profile appears, question marks litter the entire screen. "Well—they call him a ghost. We don't know what he does or what his role in Red is—all we know is that he was sent here and freed the others."

"And got caught in return," Kid mutters and he drops the photo back onto the desk."Well, that's not my concern or anything."

"Right—" he agrees. "Just kill Hasegawa after he's finished. Boss wants it done clean and quiet."

"Got it."

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There is a reason why he hates the Interrogation branch.

It's well past midnight and he's been dismissed from the stifling room five hours ago.

Kid is outside a steel door and his eyes are shut. There's a tiny window opened just an inch wide and sounds are flooding out—

"Please, don't— _don't—_!"

Sick, twisted bastards, the lot of them. Boss doesn't care what they do to dredge out information as long as there are results—but it's disgusting because these people have no sense of morals.

(Well, they _are _an illegal organization that hire out assassins and thieves, but Kid likes to have a shred of dignity left somewhere in the mess.)

Either gunshot wounds or lacerations with blood-rusted knives, to submersion in ice or boiling water. There are drugs that turn the soundest people delirious, and then there is—

"What a slut, enjoying it so much, hm?"

Ignore it, _ignore it—_

Kid hears screams and broken wails—"Please, let me go, I don't know anything—ah—_ah—_"

The boy is choking on his spit and Hasegawa—"Fuck, you're still so tight—"

_It's not even an interrogation anymore._

The sounds grate his ears and Kid pushes himself off the wall. Heavy on his heels, he turns to the door.

He pulls out the card, swipes, and kicks the door open.

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Another sin is a sin, is a sin—black blood stains his white suit.

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Kid has his walther comfortable in his palm.

It was a clean hit, right through his back with the bullet lodged somewhere in his heart.

Hasegawa barely groans and he falls back like a dead weight, pants down to his ankles and—

(Kid shoots him a couple times in the face for an extra measure.)

Kirsche hangs from the wall, stripped of clothes and shivering with bruises littering his body. On his face and chest, there are flecks of red and white.

He blinks and water streaks down his eyes.

Kid turns and raises his wrist to his mouth—"Hasegawa's dead, send a clean-up crew."

"_Understood. Alerting the system there's been an assassination. Get out of there quickly, Daiquiri—_"

"Turning against your own agent? That's hilarious."

Kid's breath stops.

There's not even a hiccup or crack in his voice. When Kid looks, Kirsche's eyes are sharp and blue, there's an upward twitch in his lip.

"Yeah. What of it?"

"I don't suppose you shot him dead for my sake," Kirsche says, amused.

"It's an inside job," Kid replies, voice flat and terse. He walks closer, side-stepping the growing puddle of scarlet. "Maybe a personal grudge too—I really don't like the guy."

"He was disgusting," says Kirsche, rolling his eyes.

Kid allows his eyes to flicker down. White leaks down between the boy's skinny thighs, black and blue sits on his thin hips—the results of being held for hours.

"That's an understatement," Kid says, reaching out to touch metal around Kirsche' wrists. His skin is ripped and bloody;the kid's toes barely reached the floor.

All his weight hung on his thin, bony wrists and steel handcuffs.

There's maybe an ounce of sympathy in Kid—maybe.

"Red Org sent you here for another reason," Kid says, and he doesn't miss the flinch when he clasps cold fingers around bleeding skin. "You easily freed the five agents, but still got caught—I'd like to know why."

"…That's not your job, is it?" Kirsche breathes, a touch of panic hiding in his voice. "Your job is on the floor, the "snitch" of White's information."

"Hm," Kid pulls the walther up and presses it into the bare skin of Kirsche's shoulder. "You know more than you let on."

There's a cold edge to his smile. "You have approximately ten minutes until back-up arrives. Your boss wants to lay the blame on a nonexistent Red agent, but keep talking and you'll be caught instead—"

_Bang—_

The chains crumple to the ground and Kirsche falls to the floor, a slight shake in his legs.

"You're right," Kid says with a smile as he puts away his gun. "I don't have time to bicker like this."

"I'm glad we came to an agreement of sorts," he mutters as he slips on his over-sized shirt. Kid raises his brow—there's an unmistakable tremble in his legs. He's trying so hard to stand.

"Come with me."

Kid takes his arm. His skin is softer and more delicate than Kid imagined—like he's made of glass.

(Glass cannon, his mind quips, powerful but fragile.)

Kirsche flinches. "What?"

"We're leaving." And Kid tugs him by the arm and leads him out of the room. "You can't escape, not like that anyways."

"You're quite soft for a top-rate assassin," Kirsche laughs, but lets himself be pulled anyways. Kid doesn't even want to know _how_ Kirsche knew that.

Kid gives him a half-glance, "Maybe."

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"Edogawa Conan," Kid repeats as he pours light wine into a tall glass. "Weird name. Named after Arthur Conan Doyle, the weirdo who wrote about Sherlock?"

Conan smiles around the wine glass as he sways his legs against the armchair. "Say one more thing about Mr. Doyle and I assure you, you will have glass in your face."

Kid snorts and puts the bottle back in the ice pail. "But why tell me? I'm the enemy, I can find you—I can kill you."

"Give a person the truth, and they will return the favor," Conan remarks. There's a soft crinkle around his eyes that makes Kid stop and stare—

"Kuroba Kaito—"

"What a stupid name."

That little _fucker_, Kid twitched. "You _asked _for it—"

Conan scoffs, taking another sip before wrapping plush towels around his shoulders. "I didn't. I was only suggesting the idea."

Kid brings the glass to his mouth and takes a swig. He swallows hard, the cool liquid burning down his throat. "So. What were you doing there?"

"Business," Conan says at length. Kid raises a brow, lips hovering on his glass. "It was a business exchange until he decided to be cocky about it."

Wait.

_Business exchange?_

"You were what—?" Kid blinks as Conan stretches his legs in front of him. "God, don't tell me that Red Org was—"

"We've been buying agent info from him for the last two months. His offers were overpriced so I was sent to barter with him."

Conan puts the glass wine on the table and leans back into the armchair, sighing. "The bastard decided to have his way with me then."

Kid's eyes drift to the bare thigh underneath the borrowed black shirt.

"…you…" Kid takes a few steps closer and puts his weight against the arm chair. "_Why_ the hell are you telling this to me? I can pull a gun on you, right here, right now."

Conan looks up and smiles, something small and private. "Because I know that you're too stupid to do that."

… that little—

_Click._

He presses the gun into the nape of Conan's neck.

(_It's slender and white, almost like a girl's. _Kid wants to kick himself.)

"The gun's here. Mind telling me again _why _you think I won't shoot?"

He looks as calm as ever, that little shit.

Sprawled in the hotel armchair in nothing more than Kid's black shirt and soft towels. He's unarmed and cheeky— he's just asking to be pinned against the chair and taken—

"Kuroba Kaito, nicknamed Kid, goes by the code name: Agent Daiquiri. Age 25. Employed just two years ago, and yet you've climbed your way to the top in information retrieval and assassination—quite impressive, I'll give you that."

Kid blinks.

"The bastard _sold _me out—?"

"Oh, and also judging by the team reports we've looked into, you cherish your gun and like things clean." Conan says, eyes examining the slight bruises on his wrist. "You won't shoot me."

Kid jams the mouth of the gun under Conan's ear, the patch of skin turns cherry red.

"Because—you're off-duty at your favorite little hotel."

Kid sputters, gun falling back down to his side. "That's it? _That's _your little deduction why you think I won't kill you?"

The boy takes a sip and he looks up, eyes sharp and _fuck_—it sends tingles through Kid's veins. "Well, am I wrong?"

Guns are strictly for missions. Kid prides himself to being the only top-rate assassin that isn't a killing machine.

He pulls the gun back.

As much as he hated admitting to it—"No, you're not, _tantei-kun._"

There's a visible twitch in Conan's shoulder. He growls for the first time that night.

"Don't call me that, _Kid._"

The name prickles Kid's ear and nothing about it is pleasant. It's all acid in his throat and he grits his teeth.

Kid downs another mouthful of wine, washing away the sour lancing up his throat.

_Familiarity _with the enemy—how repulsive.

(Kid thinks that but he's leaning down and closer to him, drawn to the soft scent of soap and the milk skin of his neck.)

"Whatever."

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Just another sin would be fine, he tells himself.

He takes his wrist and presses it to his lips. There's a faint flutter in his pulse that he finds quite addictive.

_Just one more._

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**AN:** There will be another chapter posted, so stay tuned.

Please excuse grammar errors and possible typos!

**-Yoyoboyo Inc. **


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